Jack remains standing as I settle into one of the chairs across from McCauley. “You and Detective Yarrow wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think this was connected to Chelsea and her mother, right?”
“It was Heyward who called us, which was the right thing for him to do. Do you think there’s a connection?”
“You mean as far as ‘picking us off’? I assume Dirck is stringing Chelsea’s disappearance to Elaine’s murder and the attacks on both of us, but I don’t know that it’s all connected. This might be a separate incident.”
“You want to expand on that?”
I glance at Jack before seizing the opportunity to explain myself. “I went along with Dirck this afternoon to make sure he didn’t do something stupid to Jeremy, Chelsea’s boyfriend. But Lisa was there, the gal with the escort service that I told you about. Someone had beaten her up and I’m guessing it was in retaliation for attracting a police investigation. She said as much, blaming me for getting her in trouble. I suspect that’s why Dirck was attacked.”
“But why not you?”
I shrug, “Just lucky, I guess.” McCauley raises his eyebrows. “I mean it. I ran outside to follow Lisa and saw the guy in the red convertible swing around and pick her up. They didn’t see me. When I went back inside and told Dirck his car had been towed, he suggested I go home on my own. I was long gone by the time Dirck was attacked.”
“It was the same red convertible you saw before?”
I nod. “Exactly, and I already gave you the license plate number. I think the driver’s name is Ernie. After seeing him pick up Lisa today, he’s obviously involved with her line of work, probably her so-called ‘manager.’ You checked him out, right? Interviewed him? It’s probably why the girl was beaten up, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me a minute.” McCauley shifts in his chair and takes a moment to check messages on his phone. He glances up at Jack, standing in the doorway, and then looks back at me. “So, nothing more you want to add?”
“Wait a minute, you’ve talked to this driver already. Ernie something? He and Lisa were supposed to pick up Chelsea that night, but she didn’t call. Did he say why he dropped her off at the park in the first place? What about Chelsea’s car? Who took it? Why?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I gave you a lot of information, remember? Where does it lead? Are we any closer to finding out what happened to Chelsea?”
“We can’t really say for now. We’re piecing things together.” McCauley stands. “Thank you for your help. You know how to reach us if anything else comes up.”
“Could I see Detective Yarrow?”
“Looks like she’s already gone, but I’ll let her know you want to get in touch. Any particular message?”
“No. Thanks, anyway.”
Without another word, I walk out of the cubicle, reaching for Jack’s hand as I go. Halfway down the corridor, I turn to him, seething. “This is infuriating! You wonder why I don’t want to tell them anything? It’s a one-way street with these people. Why should I trust the authorities when they don’t trust me?”
Jack squeezes my hand and guides me out through the double doors to the waiting room before speaking. “You know, it’s possible you might have been told something if I hadn’t been present.”
“You’re with the FBI. I should think they’d be happy to have you there.”
“Think again. No one’s brought us in on this.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“I’d like nothing better. You know, if I’d kept all this to myself, at least Lisa wouldn’t have been beaten up. Or Dirck.”
“Do you want to say goodbye to him?”
“No need. I’ll see him again soon enough.”
We walk down another long corridor to the parking structure and take an elevator. Jack’s dark BMW is parked next to my bright Olds 98.
“Isn’t she lovely!” I exclaim, taking in the gleaming burst of sunshine parked amidst a monotonous lineup of white, black, and gray cars.
“I’m not likely to lose you in traffic,” Jacks says with a smile. He holds the door while I slide in behind the wheel, then leans in to give me a quick kiss. “You know the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
I slide my hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer, breathing in his heady warm-raisin scent that no cologne can match. “Hmmmm, tasty,” I whisper, running my tongue along his ear. “Bottle it and we can make a fortune.”
“Just for you, baby.” He turns his face to mine and we kiss again. “Hungry?”
“Always. But let’s not stop anywhere, okay?”
“Leave it to me,” he says, gently closing the door.
I back out and pull ahead, waiting for Jack before driving down the parking ramp. I punch up KJAZ and am rewarded with John Coltrane’s “Blue Train,” the haunting tones carrying me through Westwood to the San Diego Freeway. I remain in the slow lane, wrapped in music and thoughts of Jack, visible in my rearview mirror. Enjoying the oddly intimate connection, I watch him flick on his turn signal a moment after I turn on mine. Heading toward the marina, I roll down the window and fill my lungs with cleansing ocean air.
The first time Jack took me home to his condo, he pressed a switch just inside the door of the darkened entryway and immediately the entire apartment sprang to life with music and soft lighting. At the far end of the living room, a matte-finish steel grill silently rose to reveal a balcony invitingly lit, with a glimpse of moon and stars in the night sky. I joked then that he should arrange for the hot switch to activate a robotic device that would pour a glass of wine before flipping steaks on the kitchen grill.
The effect of this transformation never ceases to delight me. This time, as though he just dropped in from next door to serenade us, we’re greeted by the soothing sounds of Chet Baker singing “Time After Time.” I hum along with Chet as Jack opens a bottle of pinot grigio and pours wine into two chilled glasses. He hands me one and touches his glass to mine.
“Cheers. I’m happy you’re here.”
“Cheers, yourself.” I smile. “I’m happy to be here, too.”
And I am. I look around the comfortable, clutter-free space and feel at home. The only furniture is a glass-and-chrome coffee table, a couch covered in pale linen and a black leather Eames chair. Pictures lean against pale, bare walls on a floor covered in wheat-colored carpet. Hidden from view inside a built-in cabinet made of smooth wood the color of sand is an array of electronic equipment and some books.
One of my Furniture Dreams would be hard to conjure up in such an environment. The absence of mementos of a life lived with someone else is perhaps another reason I feel so at ease here. But the primary reason for my contentment brushes my cheek with a kiss and puts an arm around my shoulders. I smile and so does he.
He takes my glass and I follow him into the bedroom, another uncluttered oasis, with a balcony providing a view of the starlit sky. A full moon illuminates the room, highlighting a white linen coverlet and a bank of pillows and providing all the light we need.
Jack wraps his arms around me, stroking my body. He slips my tee shirt over my head and pulls the thin straps of my teddy down, kissing and fondling my breasts. My hand slides between his legs, feeling his hunger as I slowly coax the zipper down. He moans softly as my fingers caress him. He eases me onto the bed, kneeling down, then pulling back my jeans, his kisses forming a path the length of my body. We know the terrain of each other’s bodies and how to tantalize and give pleasure. The sex is sensational enough, unhurried and passionate, but the real wonder is that we somehow found each other in the first place.
We lie in each other’s arms, sharing a pillow and listening to Chet Baker croon “I Fall in Love Too Easily,” the plaintive tenor voicing lyrics entirely too apt. Lord knows, I’ve been “fooled in the past.”
I turn my head to see Jack’s face limned in the moonlight, shadows playing off his deep-set eyes under the strong ridge of his forehead. Ther
e’s no question that he’s a handsome man, with a lean face and a cleft in his chin attesting to it. But I also see a furrowed brow and the hint of sadness in his eyes. He lost his wife after a long illness, a chapter or more of his life story that he still hasn’t fully shared with me.
Jack is a private person, keeping his thoughts to himself even, as I’ve experienced, while sharing a post-coital pillow and glass of wine. That is why I am surprised to hear him say, “Not me,” as we listen to the refrain.
“That’s not me at all,” he says again, with more emphasis. “I don’t fall in love too easily or too fast.” He turns to face me. “It happens slowly and it’s for keeps.”
I stroke his cheek, looking into his eyes. “That’s the only way I would want it.”
I take my time, my fingers, and then my mouth, caressing his body. His hand on my breast slides south, exciting me again. I ride a wave of euphoria that seems to penetrate to my very soul.
Do I even dare think that maybe this time I’ve found love that will last? I don’t need to jump aboard a fast-moving train again; this one is not going to leave the station without me. We can take our time.
Later, wrapped in a soft robe, I perch on a stool at the kitchen counter, wine glass in hand. I’ve set a table for two on the balcony and lit candles. Designer pizza, the fancy kind with smoked salmon, caviar and dill cream, has already been delivered to Jack’s door by a gourmet shop down the street. Barefoot, wearing jeans and a shirt, he busily assembles an endive salad with Gorgonzola and walnuts.
He looks up and smiles as we both hear the distant chime of my cellphone. “Any idea where you left it?” he laughs.
I race back into the bedroom to retrieve my phone from my jeans pocket. I see it’s Donna on the line and go out on the balcony to take her call.
“I was worried when you didn’t come back. Are you all right?”
“Sorry, I should’ve called earlier. How’s Dirck?”
“Fine, staying overnight in the hospital. I think he’s working up a reality show. He says his life is, to quote him, ‘the stuff of great theater.’ He even persuaded Doug to shoot video of him on his cellphone so he could send it to Pru.”
“That poor woman!”
“That’s what I thought. Did Jack take you for dinner?”
“We’re just about to eat. How’re you doing?”
“Better, now that I know you’re okay. Actually, Dougie is here having some supper. He brought Ridley with him, too.”
“I may stop by in the morning to pick up some things. Is there anything you need me to get on the way?”
“No, nothing. Enjoy your dinner.”
I end the call and then turn the ringer to vibrate. A warm sensation of well-being washes over me. I close my eyes and breathe in the tangy musk of the marshland, knowing I’m in the only place I want to be.
When I open my eyes, I see Jack watching me. “Okay?”
I smile. “More than okay. But I’m famished!”
We make short work of the pizza and salad, but linger over the last of the pinot grigio. Looking out on the water, my chin cupped in my hands, my mind fastens on the events that have unfolded since Chelsea’s disappearance.
“You know, it’s been four days already and there’s still no word from her. I can’t stop thinking that somewhere, right now, she desperately needs help. How could she just vanish like this?”
“Thanks to you, the police have some leads. Leave it to them now.”
“They’re useless! How could they not find her? And Elaine’s murder . . . my God.”
“Easy, Meg. There’s nothing more you can do.”
Jack picks up the empty platter and salad bowl, carrying them to the kitchen. I know better than to pursue this line of conversation and spoil our evening together. Another thing I’ve learned about Jack is that his thinking process is as orderly as his cutlery drawer; everything is in its place, handy when needed and out of sight when not in use. Idle speculation and rumination are of no consequence to him tonight. This is our time. I pick up our empty plates and follow him to the kitchen.
“If I can remember how to use your fancy espresso machine, I’ll make some cappuccinos.”
“Good idea,” he says, with enough enthusiasm to let me know he’s glad I’ve changed gears.
Minutes later, coffee cups in hand, we’re back on the balcony, looking out over the moonlit marshland, when I hear a ping, signaling a text message. I pull my cellphone from the pocket of my robe and see a message from Corky Shaw that reads: better take a look.
I open the link he’s sent and my stomach rolls over as a YouTube video pops up on screen with Dirck’s image, his face battered, his arm in a sling. “My God, Jack, he’s posted about himself in the hospital!”
Jack glances at the video playing on my cellphone screen, then goes into the living-room cabinet that houses his computer equipment. While he pulls up the YouTube video, my eyes fix on the horrifying images playing out on the small screen. “He’s crazy,” I murmur over and over. “He’s crazy!”
I join Jack in the living room and we watch the video together on the large monitor. “Donna mentioned that he’d asked Doug to record him on his cellphone so he could send it to Pru, but I think he’s taken it a step further. What is he thinking?”
Without comment, Jack replays the video, watching intently. Dirck, sitting up in a hospital bed, appears in close-up, a “selfie” recorded with his cellphone at arm’s length. He speaks slowly, emphatically, in Jeep Wrangler mode.
“I don’t blame you for not recognizing me. I’m Dirck Heyward, a victim of street crime, and this is the ugly truth of what it looks like. Most of you know me as Brick Storm, star of the ’80s series Aces High, set in Vegas, or Trick Patterson in the crime drama Precinct Hell, or even—” Thirty seconds go by in which Dirck plows through his guest-star series credits before he says, “But this isn’t about me.”
“Like hell,” I mutter, as Dirck launches into his account of Elaine’s murder. He’s obviously switched arms, because we have another angle on his face. I can only imagine how many takes he’s scrapped before settling on the one he’s uploaded.
“Many of you may have seen me interviewed the night of her death, talking about my dear friend, who tragically died of a gunshot wound. What most of you couldn’t know, and what I am revealing now publicly for the first time, is that famed stuntwoman Elaine Farris was the mother of my beautiful daughter, actress Chelsea Horne. My grief over Elaine’s death has sadly been overshadowed by the mysterious disappearance of my daughter, who is set to begin production on the new series Jinx, on which I have been working as her acting coach—”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t watch this thing all the way through again. Why did he do such a stupid thing?”
It’s a question neither of us can answer, but both of us are aware of the ramifications of having this information out on the Internet. Wherever she is, this revelation must be agonizing for Chelsea—and might possibly put her in even greater jeopardy.
Chapter Seventeen
While Jack takes a call from his office, I stand on the balcony, sipping coffee and looking out on the fog-shrouded wetlands. The dense early-morning marine layer hugs the inlet, blanketing the marshland in a chill, moist stillness. A sudden hoarse scream pierces the quiet, startling me.
“Look up there,” Jack whispers, coming up behind me. “A red-tailed hawk circling for prey—and there’s another one over there.”
Above us, two hawks soar through the lead-gray sky, one of them swooping down, emitting a rasping screech. The second one circles around, displaying its crimson tail feathers as it glides overhead on widespread wings. Another hoarse scream and the first hawk dives into the marsh, disappearing in the tall reeds.
“It’s a smorgasbord out there,” Jack says. “Frogs, rabbits, rats, you name it.”
“A cruel, cruel world,” I remark. “Everything is someone’s else’s meal.”
“Yes.” He nods. “Fortunately it’s murder
and mayhem I don’t have to deal with.”
There’s an edge to his voice, and I wonder if it has to do with the phone call. “Is everything all right?”
“From the Bureau’s standpoint, yes. It looks like we’ll be closing in on the sex trafficking ring finally, but it also means I have to go back up to Seattle this morning.” He rests his arms on the railing and looks out on the wetlands. “The timing is rotten. I don’t want to leave you.”
“I’ll be fine. Are you worried about what Dirck might’ve unleashed?”
“It can’t be good, whatever it is. I don’t want you hurt.” He reaches for my hand, pressing it to his lips.
“Dirck may have brought more harm to himself by attracting all that attention. You notice I wasn’t even mentioned, which is just as well. I wouldn’t much like having TMZ looking too closely at the dates of our marriage and her birth.” I lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body, but also the tension. “I wish he’d kept his mouth shut for once, but he’s put the focus on finding Chelsea, which is where it should be.”
Jack makes no comment. I’m sure he’s thinking about the shooting incident involving me, which thankfully Dirck did not mention. After a moment, he says, “I’d like you to stay here. I think it’s the most secure place for you right now. I’ll probably be back tomorrow.”
“I understand. I’ll stay here tonight, but I promised to meet Corky this morning. I don’t want to disappoint him.” I wrap my arms around Jack and press my face against his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just do what you have to do in Seattle and I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back. Are you ready to go?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Good.” I give his ribs a squeeze and look up at him with a smile. “We can leave together.”
A quarter of an hour later, I wave to Jack before pulling out ahead of him onto the narrow beach road. The fog is already lifting. The distant hum of rush hour traffic replaces the cawing sounds of predatory birds circling the wetlands. But there’s also a primal survival-of-the-fittest ethos at work in traffic on the San Diego Freeway, which I avoid by pulling off onto surface streets.
Jinxed Page 22
